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Recently, I was feeling like I’d hit some sort of wall or plateau, where things just weren’t moving right. I’d felt dissociated from training, and my extra-curricular activities just were evolving. I didn’t have enough time to do what I wanted, and it seemed I was flailing trying to get things done, and as a result, I wasn’t accomplishing much of anything.

Being an engineer, I sat down, identified what I was spending my money on and where I was spending my time. Outcome: a new schedule and rough budget, where I train twice a day on MWF (morning and night), rock climb about twice a month on Thurs, take Kato to the dog park 2-3 times a week, and start reading up on sailing in anticipation of taking some sailing classes with the girl. I set aside hour blocks during the week to study languages, work on my notes, read, shoot photos, or run errands.

Net result: I’m feeling energized again, and after heading down to SD and seeing a bunch of the old martial arts buddies, I’m amped up to train hard, learn some new skills (rock climbing! sailing!) and generally just Get Shit Done.

Shit that I look forward to doing.

Ok, all better.

I can’t believe I’ve been in LA for nearly nine months, nor can I believe I’ve spent this much time at my new job. Time seems to have accelerated exponentially. I’m reminded of a conversation I had years ago with my father, along the lines of, “A year of your life today is a big deal – make the most of it. When you’re older, a year goes by much faster. Don’t forget to make the most of it.”

Now that I finally feel somewhat competent in my job function(s), time may begin to slow down again, as my internal clock isn’t so distracted by the immense amounts of new things to learn during the workday. Granted, this still a ton to learn, but at least the foundation is there. It’s like starting all over in martial arts – when everything is new, every moment is spent absorbing new data. Once you have more experience, the number of new things you learn are less frequent, but more perhaps more important, as to epiphanies of connecting the dots allow you to gain a greater understanding of the whole picture.

Outside of work, I’m still training. I still travel down to SD to train with Kawika Sensei as frequently as possible, although work and social obligations have been limiting that to once every six to eight weeks. Regardless, now that I have a student of my own, I’m using the opportunity circle back to beginning and work on the foundations. Due to the responsibilities of teaching, I’m finding connections that I previously missed, and it is greatly increasing my understanding of the art. Frequently, these are things I realize as I’m vocalizing particular principles or techniques – and these things I may have momentarily conceptualized before – but being forced to explicate them in detail to someone that does not have the assumptions I have has proved extremely educational. (And provides fodder for my personal note collection.) And yes, I’m still taking notes, and re-vamping the existing ones. When the currently evolution is complete, years down the road, I believe the collection will be quite impressive.

Socially, most of my friends still revolve around work. Years ago, I noted that it somewhat depressed me that, once old enough, social circles tend to revolve around those you work with and those of your significant other’s. And, this is precisely the case for me today. Now, there are some very cool people I work with that I hang out from work, and Nae’s friends are by and large very cool people, so I don’t really have a problem with that. I do, however, feel like it’s somewhat contrived. How close are you with someone if, for example, you get fired, and you cease to see that social circle? Likewise, if you and your SO break up? Will you still call those friends of his/hers? There’s a nagging feeling that the friendships are driven by circumstance and locality, as opposed to a deeper confluence of shared interests. Regardless, I’m not dissatisfied here, nor with my particular situation, and it is primarily a result of my own doing: work hard, train hard, spend time with the girl. There’s not a lot of opportunity to make outside friends when that’s most of your life. But, in a way, I love that life – this life. Which is why, despite meeting some very cool people in the local art, martial arts, and photography scenes, I haven’t really followed up and initiated friendships. I feel almost like the nice new stranger in town: I get along with people, and they with me, and serendipitous encounters are appreciated when experienced, but not expected. Perhaps it’s that fiercely independent nature of mine asserting itself again. C’est la vie, it’s leading me where I think I want to go.

In short, I feel best when I get a good days work in, learn something new, train hard at night, learn something else new, hang with the girl, and have a few moments to practice a foreign language, read a good book, and shoot some photos. Since extended travel is (temporarily) out of the picture, I’m thoroughly enjoying the options available to me.

But when I do finally get out travel – watch out.

Sweet.

Back to training.

I guess I’ve missed most of December as well. Not just in blog-land, but a in real life as well. I’m finally starting to feel a bit more comfortable at the job, but still don’t have the level of depth required to discriminate between “know the reason why X is done via Y” and “X shouldn’t really be done via Y; I should build tool Z.” And, since I eat lunch and dinner at work, I haven’t really been out and about Santa Monica/Venice (not to mention LA) to a great degree. Notable points of interest:

• The Novel Coffee House and Bookstore in Venice: very cool atmosphere, laptop friendly (although the wireless isn’t free).
• Some pizza joint in Eagle Rock: excellent. Some of the best pizza I’ve ever had. I’ll have to dig up the name.
• LACMA Dali Exhibit: again, excellent.
• The Edison Hotel: awesome ‘steampunk-ish’ bar in LA. I wish I would’ve brought my camera to the Holiday Party we had there.
• I now officially add Boxers to the types of dogs (Akita, Husky, Malamute) I’d like to (someday, not in the near future) own. Mainly due to Tommy.

However, I did get the chance to spend Thanksgiving with Pop’s side of the family in Yuma, and trained with Kawika Sensei, David Mills, and some others a few weekends ago. I felt good having a body to throw around again. Lance and I met an hour before class, and Mike and Sean showed up early as well, so we beat each other up in the soggy mud of the park. Ah, yes, I definitely miss that.

Hopefully I’ll get around to posting some new (although shot a while ago) photo to osbornphoto.com, since that’s become nearly static. Also on the docket: continue on with the Spanish, Japanese, and German lessons, get back to taking more photos, and learn how to rock climb. Hopefully I can syntehisize the last two.

Tomorrow I leave for MO to meet up with the girl at her father’s place. I have to bring long johns. Damn it’s cold there.

Seriously. Wow. Two months with no update? Yeah, I know, you guys have been disappointed with that (judging from some phone calls and emails) since I disappeared. So what’s been going on?

Of course, I have a general policy not to blog about work, with the general exception of broaching vague summaries such as “busy” or “good.” And I’m not goig to change that now, but I will say this: working for Google rocks. It seems like they really value the employees, and everyone from engineer to exec seems to really buy in to the various phrases associated with Google (e.g., “Don’t be evil”), unlike other companies that just give such things lip service for the PR machine. There’s absolutely tons to learn and do here, so I’m really excited.

But, I only started just over a month ago, so what else has been going on? Ok, rewind, and let the snapshots do the talking….

And Nae and I went to Seattle for a week for a whole slew of reasons: Andrew’s wedding, hang out with Matt and Lindsay, and see some friends and family.

Andrew’s wedding:

Nae and I took one of those tours of the old underground Seattle. (Touristy but pretty cool to be down there.)

Wandering around Seattle:

Of course, some fam:

Oh yeah. In case you missed it, I had a Bon Voyage/bDay party as well:

As a referred to last post, I’ve been quite busy. I have managed to make it out every once in a while, though …

Here’s a sport I just witnessed for the first time, and I’m not sure if it’s going to catch on: Mountain Unicycling. Uh-huh. You read that right.

And over Labor Day weekend, things tend to get a bit rowdy. What happens when you come out of the waves from a session of body surfing, and someone’s fashioned a beer bong out of a tube a seaweed? Well, you make the guy from out of town chug a beer out of it, of course. (I can’t believe he did that. Cool guy and a good sport. I wouldn’t even get near the thing.)

He said it tasted pretty gross, and way too salty. Despite that, this girl from a group next door decided to take a shot at it:

Wow, that’s disgusting. I still wasn’t enticed. But, later that weekend, I did meet the coolest bartender in Mission, and the only person I’ve ever met that prefers tabasco in her tequila shots:

Of course, I still managed to make it up to LA every once in a while. Sometime after the 4th of July, there were quite a few American flags still planted about ‘Nae’s apartment complex. At some point, Tommy (the coolest boxer I’ve every met), decided he was a bit more patriotic than the rest of us. He plucked a flag up in his mouth and hauled-butt up and down the yard with the flag in his mouth. Even when he dropped it, he’d make sure to pick it up by the stick and not the fabric before continuing his circuits. He looked quite happy, and I was probably more entertained than I should have been.

And there was Mai’s birthday party at Delve Sushi - the craziest sushi joint I’ve even been to, where the make the entire restaurant get up and do the chicken dance, and the staff perform lip-sync routines to pop music. Very fun.

I know I’ve been saying that “there’s adventures in the works” for at least a year or two, and it’s finally time I can reveal what all the mystery was about. Some of you know, some of you may not. In any case I talked about doing one of two “adventures,” and of doing both if I could.

One was a special high-intensity training program for my martial arts. All outdoors in nature, two to four hour classes, two to four days a week, plus a significant amount of my own training time outside of class. The idea was to really dig in to the art. Well, I did the full six-month run of those classes, and then some, and for the last five months I’ve been taking six to eight private lessons per week with my instructor. Will I end up with some sort of ranking out of this? Perhaps. More importantly, I know that the sort of content I’ve been getting out of the last year and change of training is exactly what I was looking for in the art.

The second adventure was traveling: I was planning on selling the house, saving up money for a year or so, quitting my job, and backpacking the world for a year taking photos. This plan didn’t quite work out – as expected, that is. The bad news is the that house didn’t sell, and I had to rent it out. I really didn’t want to spend a year abroad having the anchor of a partial mortgage to pay on a monthly basis.

The interesting turn of events is that a company that offered me a job a two years ago recently came back to me and asked me what my current situation was. Two years ago, I just wasn’t in a position to take the offer, particularly since it required relocation. And, they have offices in Dublin, Zurich, Sidney … hmmm. Consider my curiosity piqued. We go back and forth a bit, and they send out another offer. A good offer.

Fast forward to this last Tuesday, September 4th. At 2 P.M., I meet with my supervisor. I tell him I’ve got this offer in, and I think I’d like to take it, but I also want to make sure I have the time to finish the current tasks at work before I leave. After all, my current company has been good to me, and I don’t want to leave them in a tough spot. I tell him it’s not “going from something, but going to something.” I don’t dislike it here, but I believe I’d really like to work for this other extremely well-regarded company.

After returning from that meeting, I see a new email in my box. “Company meeting at 4:30 P.M.” There’s something about the terseness and tone, the time, and the day of the week that send a shiver down my spine. I know what’s going to happen. And it’s a good thing.

Two hours after I tell me supervisor that I’m quitting, it is announced that our company has been sold.

Yup. I don’t know how, but I knew. Strange.

It’s been acquired by a solid company, and the deal is great for everyone involved. I’m given a very good offer – salary increase, stock, shares, performance bonuses, matching 401(k), retention bonus, all the goodies. It’s a damn good package.

I have to sleep on it.

Today, I made my decision: I will no longer be continuing employment at my current company. It was a tough decision to make, but I believe it’s the right one.

I’m going to work for Google.

I’ll be undergoing a week of training in the Mountain View office starting October 15th, and then returning to the Santa Monica office for at least a year and a half. Why “a year and a half”? After that, you’re eligible for transfer. Well, Zurich is right in the middle of Eastern and Western Europe, has a great train system, and you get the European standard five weeks of vacation per year … hmmm, that might not be a bad way to travel….

(And yes, ‘Nae is down with going.)

So that’s why I’ve been off the map lately. I’ve had more than my usual share of tasks to take care of lately.

Last night I ran into a girl I haven’t seen in a while. We talked about significant others’, work, and life status in general. Eventually, she asked me where I my relationship with my girlfriend is going.

“Well, there you’re diving down the rabbit hole. You’re asking a question that, to understand my answer, requires you to view the world through my, perhaps skewed, philosophical perspective. Or I can give you the canned answer, but it won’t be as interesting.”

She attempts to cut me off at the pass: “So it sound like you don’t think it’s going to last?”

“Sounds like you don’t want the canned answer.”

“No.”

“Then it’s not that easy. See, desires are driven by the ego. The ego gets you into trouble. Not achieving your desires gets you into trouble. You know the parable about the man who dreams he’s being attacked by a tiger, right? And he’s so scared in his nightmare that he wakes, sweating profusely with his heart racing? Well, the tiger wasn’t real, but induced completely real issues: he’s scared, sweating, and his heart is pounding.”

“You weren’t joking about about it being a philosophical question.”

“Nope. But stick with me. Although you asked about a ‘good thing’ – my relationship – and I gave you and example of a ‘bad thing’ – a nightmare – but at the core they have the same essence: desires. You could turn the parable around and say that the man’s desire to hold on to life is what created the vulnerability that causes him to worry about losing it in the first place. He was worried about losing something that he wasn’t even in danger of losing. On a smaller scale, our desire for things like a better job, TVs, a new car, etcetera – things we don’t even have – open these vulnerabilities. We start to worry and stress about losing things we don’t even have yet. Doesn’t that seem silly?”

“I suppose. But I don’t see how you can be with someone for nearly a year and not have expectation as to where it’s going.”

“That’s just the issue: expectations. I try not to have ‘expectations.’ As someone I respect very much recommended, I try to give thanks for those things that work out in my favor, but I try not to ‘expect’ them. Otherwise, I open myself to losing things I don’t even have. It’s like grasping for clouds – only through the act of attempting to own do you realize your failure. I give thanks for what I receive, but realize that tomorrow the world may change. Using the canonical example, what if I get hit by a bus tomorrow morning?”

“It sounds like an excuse not to get emotionally invested. You’re over thirty, right? Do you just want to bounce around to different girls; to be a gigolo for the rest of your life?”

“Ah, there you went from one end of the spectrum to the other: the expectations of interminable fairy-tale love, to the complete absence of it. The problem with both views, as I see it, it that both are static caricatures. No one is static; everyone’s always slowly but subtly changing. I think the relationships that end up going the distance are the ones where people evolve in similar or complementary directions, while some end because people evolve in incompatible directions. And that’s not to say that it’s someone’s ‘fault’, other than the prevalent mis-guided perception that everyone will be tomorrow who they are today. In fact, in the west, that’s frequently seen as a noble quality, while to me it seems quite absurd.”

“So now you’re indicting marriage?”

“No, not at all. Even I may get married some day. But I’m not operating under the assumption that it’s immutable. Just because you realize that there’s the possibility the world as you know it may change in an instant, doesn’t mean you don’t commit yourself completely to what you’re doing right now. In fact, it may even be an argument for working harder than ever, and not procrastinating. This recognition of flux isn’t a license for apathy. I definitely have goals that I strive for. But there difference is that I don’t expect to achieve them – I work my ass off to get there, and if I get there, I try to accept the results gracefully. If I don’t get there, I try to do the same.

“Most people don’t seem to be able to believe that one can work whole-heartedly toward a goal – say, a new job or a marriage – but at the same time not ‘expect’ to succeed. In the U.S., at least, it comes across sounding like ‘not believing in yourself’ – which is almost heretical to western ears – although I see it as something even stronger: I believe in myself, and I’m also aware of the world. The most prevalent western epithet I’ve heard that can capture some essence of this is the Serenity Prayer: ‘God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things that should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.’ So asking me to extrapolate where my relationship is going is a non-trivial question. I’m trying to let both her and myself evolve, and hopefully we evolve together. Make sense?”

“So your relationship has potential, right?”

“Yeah.”

A few weekends ago, Nae and I woke up uber-early in the morn to go on a little pre-dawn hike – watching the sun rise from behind the mountains and watching its rays creep over the Pacific was supposed the be quite a sight. However, it’d been a while since I’d woken up at 4:30 AM. I was surprised by the lack of sun.

But that was okay, since as there was no light, Nae didn’t feel the need to open her eyes while driving.

We ended up not making it up the hill by the time the sun rose, but that’s okay. It was fun regardless. Nae took a bunch of pics of me being the opposite of my martial arts persona, and I took a bunch of HDR shorts that I won’t get a chance to process until after I return from Costa Rica.

Saturday night was Lauren’s birthday, a friend and the girl to my good friend Nick. As a celebration, we went down to Altitude Sky Bar for some drinks up on the rooftop of the Marriott. All in all, a good evening, catching up with people I haven’t seen in a while. (Nick’s reply when someone asked if I was going to show up: “You only see Barclay when he wants to be seen.” Heh.)

But the most memorable was the walk home. I left a bit earlier than the rest of the group, due to training scheduled for several hours on Sunday morning, and a fiscal allergy to the $8.75 drinks. I was waiting for the elevator along, but when the doors opened, an obviously intoxicated couple joined hopped in behind me and posted up in the corner of the spacious carriage. There was already a very large man on the other side, forming a triangle between the couple, himself, and myself.

This man was large. Not large in the “square” sense, but large in the “round” sense. If roly-poly indicates pleasantly plump, this man was rolliferous-ginormous. Truth be told, I hadn’t given him much thought yet. But I would soon. The redhead to my right blurted out, “Don’t worry about us, we’re just going to make out over here.” She and her boy proceed to suck face in the noisiest manner I’ve ever witnessed. I politely avert my eyes down, but a chuckle escapes. As I look back up, I see the large man’s eyes making a leisurely full sweep up from my shoes, legs, torso, and then straight into my eyes.

As his lips begin to curl into a suggestive smile, I wonder what he’s doing on this elevator, as he was already on it when it opened at the top floor, and we’re now dropping all the way to ground level. His mouth opens slowly, and through a deep reverberating baritone, he says to me, “Don’t worry, bro, I don’t want to make out with you either.”

I may have sighed audibly.

“Much obliged.”

We finish the ride in silence, save the lip smacking of the couple in the corner.

I had parked over near 14th Street, east of downtown, because I didn’t want to pay the $15 for a few hours of parking, and I though it would give me an opportunity to explore a different park of town. Now, 1 AM in the morning on Saturday night may not the the wisest time to do this – given that I was parked in a distinctly less safe neighborhood than the Gaslamp – but I did anyway. A friend had warned me on the way out to watch out for the pimps, dealers, and prostitutes.

Instead, I find myself walking behind another drunk couple just leaving another bar. They’re in Official San Diego Club Gear: she has a lacy white thong peeking out above her jeans with a waist-length fitted dress shirt, and the guy has the ubiquitous vertically striped shirt and spiky hair. As I pass, she throws her arm around me and complains loudly, “I’m just trying to flirt with him, but he’s too shy and keeps running away. Would you tell him to flirt with me?”

I slide out from under her arm, and angle my head to speak to the guy without breaking stride. “Are you telling me you need more encouragement than that?”

A few paces later, as I glance back, I see him pulling her into an alcove of the building, hands about her waist.

I smile, wondering if what I just encouraged was a good deed or not, but before I even reach the end of the next block, I find another couple making out against the brick wall of a warehouse. The girl notices the click of my dress shoes on concrete and pushes her head into they guy’s shoulder, mumbling something about there being “people about.”

Again without pausing in my stroll, I comment to them, smiling but without turning my head, “No, really, don’t worry about it. I’m really quite used to it by now.”

I’m struck by how much of our collective existence is spent creating and recognizing patterns. As a programmer, my job boils down to changing polarities of ferro-magnetic cells contained in a very small space. These bits represent programs, programs that are copied to other systems, incorporated into larger sets of other program-patterns that analyze data-patterns, forming other sets of patterns, all reaching up to support high semantic layers. In turn, these patterns help other people recognize pulling “meaning” out of “noise” – distinguishing certain sorts of patterns and dismissing others. Yes, there’s layer on semantic layer, but in essence, we’re all just waving our hands and stirring up atoms in specific sequences.

As a photographer, I suspend transient reflections of lights in a reproducible form in an effort to convey a message. As a martial artist, I seek to use physical movements to organize and refine the flow of stimuli in my own head. The arts move bits of paint, or charcoal, or steel, or atoms in the air forming vibrations, in order to convey some higher-level semantics – but in essence, students of these avocations are no more or less organizing matter and energy that we are: cleaning our rooms, so to speak.

Even the R&D deep thinkers, or theorists, or psychologists, or lawyers, which may not appear to produce in the traditional, brick-and-mortar sense, are performing their own pattern recognition. When they’re not publishing (organizing via graphite or toner on lignin) they’re guiding the electrical impulses in their brains, and attempting to influence the same in others. They’re either generalizing, or delving deeper into the Mandelbrot, finding finer-grained patterns, just like the rest of us.

(Without getting into an aside on free will and random number generation here, particularly disregarding Hume, we must assume that general effort of any profession results in patterns.)

What does this mean? I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been reading too much Camus lately. Or, perhaps our entire existence is the futile (according to the 2nd law of thermodynamics) attempt at ordering our systems.

That’s a pretty bleak outlook. Is that all we have? Is the sum of our existence this gross? Or, is the value and importance, the driving force in our lives, the emergent meanings of those semantic layers? Is the importance our intention, the idea or feeling or concept we’re attempting to express or communicate, even if only to ourselves?

I’d like to think so – at a visceral level, it just seems right. But even if that’s an illusion, I think I’d prefer it. This isn’t a spiritual argument, either: I can think of no philosophy or religion – or lack thereof — that would result in anything less than suicide if the illusion is not preferred. Even the act of “doing nothing” conveys meaning and intent. The act of continued existence, in the most static of possibilities, assimilates and organize experience involuntarily, and an act of suicide by whatever means imbues semantics. Even “non-doing” is doing. (The Taoists recognized this ages ago.)

And suicide is also a sucker’s bet, since we can’t eve know if the decomposition of our corporeal selves necessarily results in either a net entropy loss or a lack of meaning. And trying to convince others that this there is no meaning requires organization of bits and the conveyance of meaning, not to mention being inherently paradoxical. In order for this to be accepted, it requires the complete extinction of life, spontaneously and without effort, all because “life is futile.” (Which it may very well be, but it yields no “fight the good fight” against said futility.) So, let’s run withe illusion, if that’s what it it.

So is it not what we do that is important, but what we intend? This could be construed as an argument for sin, anarchy, apathy, or whatever your hobgoblin is – and people have in fact argued this – but I see it differently. We don’t disregard action in favor of intention, but we act as we intend. In this way, we most accurately portray our intention – the most important part, if you buy that – and action becomes a vehicle for expression – although we would be remiss to confuse the two. The moon and it’s reflection in the water, as the parable goes.

The bits aren’t important, the patterns aren’t important, but that they freely flow from our intention, forming our communication – that is important.

You can tell we’re nearing the apex of spring break throughout the nation when the bars of SD are filled with oodles of young kids that remain standing and vocal despite being smack in the depths of a blackout. Considering I don’t go out on Friday nights, due to Saturday morning training, I hopped down to the local pub (after training) to grab some food and watch the debauchery.

I ran into some people I had met a few weeks ago who were also eating at the bar. While talking to one them, I feel some sort of strange feeling behind my head. As I turn, I see a girl behind suddenly bring her hand down while she and her friend stifle simultaneous laughs. They immediately apologize, while still trying not to laugh, and tell me that they’re nurses that had been sent to some sort of new-age healing seminar where patients were supposed to respond to some sort of “energy transfer” that occurs without physical contact. Apparently, I “felt” this, and turned, and they were quite amazed. (I think I probably just felt the air move.)

It was apparent that one of the girls was absolutely hammered. She also couldn’t keep her hands off me, running them over my jacket and head. She has me do a little spin, apparently so she could check out my ass.

“Um, I should tell you, I have a girlfriend.”

She waves me off, and I resume talking to my friends at the bar. A few minutes later, I feel a hand on my jacket again, pulling me back to her.

“What’s up?”

“Where are you from?”

“Originally? Phoenix. But I’ve lived here for quite a while now.”

“Phoenix? What are you doing here?”

“I went to school here, and now I work here.”

“So you’re on vacation?”

“Um, no, I live here. I finished school a while ago, if that’s what you mean. I don’t get spring breaks anymore.”

“You live here? Awesome!” A clumsy high-five ensues, after which she keep hold of my hand and starts caressing my fingers.

“Um, I should tell you, I have a girlfriend.”

She looks shocked that I would lead her on in such a manner, waves me off again, and I resume my conversation with my friends at the bar – the topic of which is now this drunk girl behind me.

Variations on the above happen a few more times, where she ignores me for a few minutes, then pulls me over to her, we have a short disjointed conversation wherein she answers questions I didn’t ask because she so drunk. (E.g., “So you’re a pediatric nurse? How old are the kids you work with?” “Oh, I’ve been doing it for a few years.” “Fascinating.”) Inevitably, it ends with too much physical contact, I repeat that I have a girlfriend, she looks shocked as if I hadn’t disclosed it before, asks what my name is again, then waves me off. After the fifth or so time I’ve told her I’m taken, she says, “Well, we can work something out” and begins to grind her butt into my crotch.

Normally, I think this would be a great way to end a Thursday night (if she wasn’t so drunk, she’d actually be cute), but considering she’s beyond drunk and I’m not allowed to do that, I disengage and note that should really hang out with my friends at the bar.

Over semi-whispered voices, we all watch the girl work her magic on every boy that passes and discuss her tactics: grabbing asses, having them pull up their shirts, etc. Withing five minutes she’s found another prospect, and they’re sucking face in the middle of the bar.

I look at my friends and note, “You know, that guys thinks he’s got it made. He’s going to buy her another drink or two and then they’ll tab out and grab a taxi back to his place. But I’d bet dollars to donuts that she passes out cold in the cab ride, and he’ll be stuck with the cab fare, an unconscious chick, and wishing he had a shopping cart so he could drop her off at home, Animal House style.”

They laugh, and nod in agreement.

Postscript: She had her sober-ish friend watching over the proceedings, so I wasn’t too worried about “un-gentlemanly behavior” on the guy’s part. Otherwise, I might volunteer to drive her home just for her own safety. Honestly. She was that far gone.

It’s official, the tickets have been purchased: I’ll be in Costa Rica with ‘Nae for the first week of May. I’ve never been before, so of course I proceeded to read mountains of info on it, but now I want to spend a month there. Alas, I don’t have a month to spare, I have a week. So, who’s been there? Where should I go?

I’m thinking of a few days lounging in the sun, and wandering through whatever town(s) are near the hotel, a few nights out, and perhaps some day hikes. I don’t want to stay in some large urban city, nor in a town so small that there’s no place to grab a beer at night. Perhaps somewhere on Peninsula de Nicoya? Mal Pais? Or somewhere on the Central Pacific Coast?

Email me, I crave advice.

(Of course, I’ll be shooting the trip.)

I can be a vengeful, egotistical person.

Most of the time I tend to use these things for a “noble” cause: I’m egotistical in that I believe I can do anything if I apply myself hard enough, and I won’t believe someone based on anecdotal evidence. I am vengeful in that I retaliate when I believe myself crossed or treated unfairly.

However, that’s not always the case. I can be an asshole. (Just ask some of my past girlfriends.) But fortunately, these parts of myself are transient. I’m able to let them go almost as easily as they appear. As writing is therapeutic, sometimes you, the reader, get an emotionally-tinted catharsis, colored by my introspection upon given event. This is intentional. These are tools in my toolbox; to capture real-life events and analyze myself. As the reader, you typically don’t see the resolution, though – since it’s the process that’s important, and by the time something’s been resolved, I’ve already internalized the lesson and moved on. The feeling rarely lasts, but the learned lesson does. It’s one of the reasons I like to sleep on things when I find myself irritated. But even then, I can be a whopping asshole.

Will I always have this part of me? Yes. Anger, Love, Doubt, Fear, and such other things are a permanent part of human nature. What counts is what you do with them, how you guide them, how you use them. Sometime I do alright, sometimes not (and those are the times I’m a legitimate asshole). Sometimes I use them as fuel for writing. Sometimes it gets me, and others, into trouble. Do I stand by everything I’ve written? Yup. Should some of it have not been written? Probably.

Have I lost girlfriends and friends over the years due to things I’ve said or written? Yes. Would I change that? No, because I meant what I said, and felt strongly enough about it to say it. Do I still care for and respect those people? In almost every case, yes. Do I just have a problem apologizing? Nope, I’ve done plenty of that. Sometimes I have to apologize for an the effect or presentation of a phrase, but not the phrase itself. Did I apologize to my friend-turned-addict when confronting him? Certainly, I apologized profusely for the effect I was about to have on him, but didn’t apologize for making him confront the truth. It was enough to dissolve our friendship, but – years later, I heard – he was clean and sober. I still feel regret for the hell I had to put him through, but I don’t regret doing it one iota.

Sometimes, people just need space, and sometimes, the best way to do that is to break up, get separated, stop hanging out, whatever – it doesn’t mean it’s over for good. I’m reminded of my girlfriend and a good friend hers, who for over a year had bad blood between them. But we all hang out together regularly now – they just needed time apart. I don’t believe in things like meeting your “one and only” or “friends for life.” Such concepts imply a degree at contrived stasis that disturbs me. Can it happen? Sure. Should it be a goal? Maybe. But I believe it’s as much chance as it is hard work.

Because of this, some people think I’m an callous asshole. But that doesn’t mean I reflexively think that he or she is an asshole.

And I’m fine with that.

Last night I was assisting Sensei with a couple classes when he asked, facetiously, for a volunteer. Of course, I volunteer – since I was there to assist, it’s apparent that he’d be use me as Uke (the person who is providing an attack or energy for the other person, the Tori, to practice a technique upon) – and he went off on a small aside about the benefits of being Uke for the instructor, of how you learn more as Uke than anyone else, how Uke is actually teaching the person the other person, other such points related to the benefits of not just performing a technique, but being on the receiving end as well.

This segued into a short conversation about how I was volunteering my time, and how it’s beneficial for me to see, as a – hopefully – future instructor the evolution of classes over a single topic, as well as various on-the-fly modifications and variations have cropped up due to working with different individuals.

Hold on, did he say “hopefully”? Damn, I think he did. He hopes I do follow through to become an instructor of this art? Or was it that he knows I’m hoping to pass my instructor’s certification? Either way, frickin’ sweet. That’s pretty the extent of a compliment you’ll get out of Sensei. He probably doesn’t even remember saying it, as it was so incidental to the topic.

But I’ll remember.

Now I just have to keep training balls-out for the next few weeks.

Instructor’s certification testing ends in mid-Feb this month.

It seems that I keep unintentionally running into reasons why A—- (as well as some other past girlfriends) and I were destined to be poor lovers. (Likewise, a reason we’re great friends.) Take these passages from Milan Kundera’s Slowness:

You’re astonished: where, in that terrain so rationally organized, mapped out, delineated, calculated, measured – where is there room for spontaneity, for “madness,” where is the delirium, where is the blindness of desire, the “mad love” that the surrealists idolized, where is the forgetting of self? Where are all those virtues of unreason that have shaped our idea of love? No, they have no place here. For Madame de T. is the queen of reason. Not the pitiless reason of the Marquise de Merteuil, but a gentle, tender reason, a reason whose supreme mission is to protect love.

She possesses the wisdom of slowness and employs the whole range of techniques for slowing things down. She demonstrates it particularly during the second stage of the night, which is spend in the pavilion: they enter, they embrace, they fall onto a couch, they make love. But “all this had been a little hurried. We understood our error…. When we are too ardent, we are less subtle. When we rush to sensual pleasure, we blur all the delights along the way.”

There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.

In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is direction proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

In this respect, A—- and I were definitely polarized. I’m with Kundera here, while several of my past girlfriends have been in the opposite camp. That’s not surprising, as I have a predisposition for artists, and it seems most artists have a predisposition for unbridled spontaneity. Now, A—- (and others) might contest this designation, but there was certainly a strong element of it present.

On the other hand, I also realize that, to quote Violent Acres: “Do you want to know what we [girls] really talked about when discussing the best sex we ever had? We talked about our scraped knees and the bruises on our backs where we were bitten in the throes of passion. No one even mentioned that time you filled the bathtub full of rose petals and blah, blah, blah. It was that time in the back seat of an old chevy with our faces crudely pressed up against the window that got us hot.” But I also don’t think of this is as the first step. Imagine the route to encounter, all the nights previous, all the machinations invoked to make this an unexpected surprise. The slowness is the journey. People don’t talk about the excruciating hike up to Machu Pichu, they only talk the destination – but it wouldn’t be quite the same at sea level. I enjoy the journey; I want to prolong it.

I see this in my love of chaotic and experimental music: I don’t hear it as a cacophony of dissonance, as many do, but of a canvas of highly organized, yet abstract, signposts, encouraging you to slow down, listen, and form your interpretation carefully. Isn’t that a fundamental of abstract art? To unencumber that which can’t be directly portrayed with an indication of it? If an explicit painting of “love” or “hate” or “misery” or “happiness” only serves to minimize or limit its representation, then isn’t abstract art and effort to free the concept from it’s bindings? Just as words can only outline of a concept, they are not the concept itself, and too many words only end of obscuring the message they were originally cast to convey? The paintings and words and sounds are a guide for a journey, an invitation to walk inward and experience the concept or feeling yourself – it is a map for the journey.

Then again, perhaps I’m just reminding myself to slow down.

I suppose it’s a long way past “official,” but I have a girlfriend now. It’s a little strange – I believe I’d gotten used to the serial dating, no-commitment sort of scenarios I experienced after A—-. Considering my future adventure number two, I wasn’t really looking for anything serious. (I know I haven’t disclosed exactly what that adventure entails yet, but my quote regarding it is, “if I end up the same person as when I start, I did something wrong.” Should give you idea enough.) Of course, the start date of those adventures keeps getting pushed back further and further – most likely staring in 2008 now – but I find that I’m curiously comfortable with the whole relationship. I wasn’t expecting a it, but I’m glad I’m in it.

It helps that she lives a couple hours away. Right now I’m swamped with other activities, namely, “adventure number one,” and if she lived in town, I believe she’d either get sick of me not being around enough when I could be, or alternately, I’d feel bad for the same reason. As it stands, we really don’t have much choice in the matter. So, we have great every-other-weekends, but I still have just enough time to dedicate to my other passion. Yes, sometimes it sucks not having someone to curl up with at night, and the droughts of sex definitely suck, but those are also elements of “serial dating” that I’d gotten used to.

The most recent question that’s cropped up is regarding how the two of us handle my absence during the second adventure. Truthfully, I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. I didn’t think we’d already be talking about it. But there’s three things for sure: the adventure is definitely non-negotiable, I feel I must do it (or at least the majority of it) alone, and I don’t want to hurt her. Glancing back above, I hope – and assume – that part of me won’t change. But other aspects certainly will. It’d hard to predicate the future when you don’t even know your own role.

In short, ‘Nae is totally awesome – she gives me space to do my thing, she’s sexy and funny and all that good stuff – I just don’t quite know how my future education will affect me. I suppose the plan right is to enjoy what I have right now, and see what develops.

And that, in and of itself, could prove to be yet another adventure.

P.S.: In terms of the locals, I have to apologize to many of my friends that I haven’t seen for quite some time. You’re still in my thoughts.

Remember this? Well, I’m smack in it. Which is why you haven’t seen me much, for those of you local to SD. I’m surprised I’ve been able to post as much as I have.

Have I stopped my Japanese language classes? Yes. Are photography exibitions on hold? Yes. Do my blog posts generally suck? You betcha. Am I dating? Well, not really – I have a girlfriend who, miraculously, puts up with my schedule. Has it been worth it?

Absolutely.

But it ends in Feb sometime. Which means I have a lot to do before then, and I’m maintaining my AWOL status until then. What happens after Feb? I don’t know. There may be another evolution, another opportunity I can’t pass up. I’m going to try my damndest to make that happen. But if it doesn’t, well, hopefully I’ll be out and about a little more often.

And then, as soon as I can, my other adventure.

The house is done! As far as I know, there’s nothing more we want improve upon. So, I’m finally getting around to posting pics of one of the things that’s consumed entirely too much of my time.

Kitchen, before:


Kitchen, after:




Dining Room, before:

Dining Room, after:

Living Room, before:



Living Room, after:



Stairwell and Hallway, before:


Stairwell and Hallway, after:


Bedroom 1, before:


Bedroom 1, after:


Bedroom 2, before:


Bedroom 2, after:


Bedroom 2 Bath, before:

Bedroom 2 Bath, after:



Exterior, before:

Exterior, after:


Entraceway:

I’m feeling the Holiday Crunch: getting presents, making sure I’ve got everything tax-related that needs to be completed before the end of year, organizing travel plans, selling the house, training, balancing responsibilities and checkbooks, not enough time … wondering when in the world I’ll find the time to do laundry, clean the bathroom, and photograph the house. I can feel the compression. It’s easily identifiable as a low-grade discomfort that won’t be resolved soon, like driving through the desert and not be sure there’s enough gas to reach the other side. The only way to remedy it is to trudge onward, crossing things off the list, but I’m still at that stage where two more items will crop up to replace the task just completed.

And I’m still pretty isolated these days – self imposed – trying to focus on commitments I made months ago. I don’t want to sound all doom-and-gloom here: It seems like I’m always saying “things will clear up in a few months.” But there is always something I’m trying to wrap up, and eventually I do, and am rewarded with some months of respite prior to the next Responsibility Crunch. It’s during these breaks, however, that you don’t hear me talking about “Shit that needs to be done that keeps me from doing Other Shit,” since I’m usually doing Other Shit. And you hear me talk less about things that I can’t wait to have done, and more about things I can’t wait to do.

And that’s when the posts are funnier.

But, I can share this: this is how we roll, beach style, to transport Thanksgiving dinner and wine:

We have no idea why Nat is sniffing the seat.

Another indication that Roommate D has lost all perception of a world outside his marriage:

We ordered new carpet a few weeks ago, and it’s due to be installed this morning. Last night we moved all the bedroom furniture downstairs so we didn’t have to pay the installers obscene furniture-moving fees, but we left the beds upstairs until morning. After I wake up, I haul my bed out to the hallway while Roommate D finishes clearing out his room. I’m about to take off for work, but I notice his bed is pretty thick and probably heavy, so I ask him if he’d like me to help him move it. He mumbles a yes.

So I stand in his door waiting while he’s picking up some random crap from the floor. And I wait.

And wait.

Not too long, but long enough for me to prompt him with a “We should probably move the bed while I’m still here.”

“Yeah, hold on,” he mumbles, going back to pick up various stuff from the floor. He untangles some electrical cables. He puts little things away. Finally, when finished moving all the crap that can be moved by one person, he returns to the bed and I help him move it.

It’s not like he kept me waiting for a half hour, but it was rather annoying to offer help, have it accepted, and then have the assumption made that I’ve nothing better to do than watch while he performs tasks that could just of easily been done after the bed was moved; after I’d left for work. I wonder if he really even noticed that I was standing there, doing nothing.

Again, not a big deal, but I think this contributes to my theory that he no longer feels a part of the world outside his relationship, which is sad.

So, Thursday ‘Nae and Natalie and Colin and I headed over to a friend’s house and stuffed our belly with beer and turkey at a Thanksgiving potluck. I met some wonderful people, and had a great time. Friday, ‘Nae and I visited my family, sans Dad and Sis+Hubby, and Mum was surprisingly well behaved .

That is, until Mum stopped by the next day to check out the remodels I’ve done to the house. (I’m waiting until the carpet’s in to post pics.) Everything was going along just hunky-dory until this little monologue cam tumbling out of Mum’s mouth:

“So, ‘Nae what are you doing for Christmas? You’re more than welcome at my house in Phoenix. Oh, wait, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I said that. I should think before I speak. It just kind of came out. It’s up to Barclay, whether or not he wants to invite you. Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that either. Sometimes it just happens. I just thought it’d be nice – but it’s not my decision – but the offer stands. I’m so sorry. I really shouldn’t have said that….”

‘Nae and I were dumbfounded by how long it continued. Nowhere near as bad as previous encounters – quite sweet, really – but quite amazing none-the-less.

Oh, and two unrelated notes:

I’ve found what I want to go as for Halloween next year:

And I finally got some jeans that don’t fall off my ass when I’m not wearing a belt. (Due to weight loss, not because I was intentionally baggy-ass style before.) My reward? A drunk fat chick grabbed my crotch last night. The whole twiggle-n-berries at once. Yay.

I ran into M a few nights ago. At first, I felt a bit of schadenfreude: she’s definitely gained some weight, I’ve definitely lost some, and she’s certainly not modelling anymore.

And then I think, maybe she’s quite the coke. That’d be cool. I’d like to think I had something to do with that, but most likely not.

We end up chatting for a few, and it turns out she lives in NC now with a Marine husband, looking forward to the whole children-and-picket-fence thing. She’s cleaned up, sober, and confides in me that she “wasn’t in a very good place when I met her.”

Well, shit. Totally killed my schadenfreude. I’m genuinely pleased for her.

But it was still a tad awkward.

I’ve had my fair share of debaucherous days through the course of my life, all pale in comparison to the one I’m about to relate. It’s brief, but entirely true. We’ll call the guy Brian, because he looked like a Brian and I never caught his name. He was already drunk enough to be in the “already friends with everyone” stage, so I don’t think introductions were the first thing on his mind.

Anyway, Brian was in Detroit, gambling large sums of money – “the kind of money we don’t like to talk about” – and losing. So, he proceeds to slam back a shit-ton of beer and tequila. Prior to passing out, he calls his cousin, a tenant of his that we’ll call Paul, and tells Paul that if he buys a plane ticket to San Diego with his credit card and packs his bags, Paul’s next month’s rent is comped.

Paul complies.

Brian wakes up on a plane mid-flight, and has to check his ticket to find out where he’s going. After a few more mid-flight drinks, he arrives in San Diego, where a friend lives, but his buddy is working so he sleeps half the night on the driveway of a stranger’s house. Upon waking, he realizes he’s still drunk, and heads down to PB for more drinks and ends up with two fresh tattoos on his arms – “Honor” on one, and “Pride” on the other. After ten more shots of Patron, he asks one of the bartenders to go to Hawaii that night. After her shift is over, they walk out the back together.

Alas, they didn’t go to Hawaii.

They went to San Francisco.

Halloween evening a few of us were training in the park – one of my traditional activities, although I usually work more on the meditation and visualization side of things. We were working with the bo, well after dark, when someone suddenly hefted a bo as if to throw it like a javelin. There was a furry little bunny rabbit that’d ventured out onto the grass about twenty feet away.

I chuckle.

“I think I’d probably get it.” He sets down the bo.

I push some ego buttons. “I don’t know, those little fuckers are pretty quick.”

He considers, perhaps testing himself, then heaves the stick forward, hitting right where the critter was nibbling grass before it scattered, scared as shit. When he retrieves his bo, there’s a chunk of fur on it.

“At least you know you could survive on wabbit stew if you needed to.”

“Yeah, but now I feel bad. Karma’s definitely going to bust me for that one.”

“Fuck. I goaded you into it. Now I feel bad too.”

“Yeah, it really is your fault. I’ll tell Karma when I see her.”

Thanks.

Every once in a while I think it’d be cool to own an antique Japanese typewriter. It’s got a very novel quality about it, and you’d be joining an elite and respected “club” of people that own them. People would be impressed, and probably give you a little extra lee-way with your assignments. As an antique, it probably wouldn’t have an owner’s manual, and even if it did, I probably wouldn’t understand it, and half the instructions would be translated incorrectly anyway – or very possibly, be self-contradictory. It’s bound to be an adventure.

You’d have to coddle it just to get anything done with it – but in my mind there’s no reason to own it just to keep is stashed in a sterile environment. There’s a certain responsibility to caring for antiques, and this would be no exception. Considering it’s extreme complexity (and surely, it’s a delicate beast), I’m sure it’d required an undue amount of attention just to keep it alive. But there’s still that craving … sometimes I think it’d just be so damn cool to have. There’d certainly be moments of profound joy, having the simple beauty and depth of Basho reproduced from such a beautiful blank slate. Or, perhaps, just a little bit of me out in the world, a expression of myslef that will surive long past my body.

On further analysis, however, I probably wouldn’t really like having one. I’d probably get frustrated quite quickly. I’d find that it wouldn’t quite do what I want – I’d constantly be performing the wrong action, and next thing you know, it’d be spewing ink all over my new carpet, have wads of paper stuck in it’s maw, and the only thing it’d successfully spit out would be nonsensical and profanity-laced. I wouldn’t know where to get supplies for it, nor which ones were the best given a selection. Invariably, I’d end up sacrificing time with my friends and family just to figure out how to get a 17-stroke radical to print, just because I don’t under the language too well. Knowing me, I’d probably even lose sleep over it. I’d worry about it being stolen, or spontaneously breaking, or just tripping over it in the middle of the night when I’m going to get a glass of water. I’d wonder why it came with so many god-damned buttons, and who in the hell ever thought it’d be a good idea to create one of these things.

It might just be better to borrow one from a friend for a bit – I’d still have to be quite careful with it, but at least I’d have someone to ask questions of; someone to query about the operation and, in the worst case, someone to return it to when it acts up. Even so, it’d only be an occasional thing, and in retrospect, I don’t even know that I’d go so far as to ask a friend for the favor – it’d probably just be hoisted upon me.

Wait, no, I’m talking about children.

Never mind.

From 09/13/2005, regarding driving in to San Diego from the dry summer air of Phoenix:

_ Back then, I could smell the salt in the air all the way out in Alpine, forty miles inland. I’d be rocketing in from El Centro on I-8, windows down, stereo sweating. Pulling deeply, I’d savor the indication of the ocean, dowsing my emotions in water. Eventually, I’d only be able to smell it standing on the cliffs in Pacific Beach. People are adaptable like that, and sometimes I despise it. Sometimes, it’s disappointing to adapt. Sometimes, I want to suspend change. I want to smell the salt again. _

And now I smell the autumn air. It hit me harder this year; more noticeable, more prevalent. There’s a distinct briskness to the air. Paired with a a confluence of other factors, of evening traffic home with the sun already set; the accumulation of ocher, tan, and sienna leaves, bare branches reaching toward an empty azure sky. There’s something about the chill you can smell; it delicately frosts your nostrils on a sharp inhale.

I’m reminded of trick-or-treaters, of the long desert drive home for the holidays, of the nostalgia of Stegner’s Crossing to Safety. There’s a placid stillness before the whirlwind of impending holidays. Hot cider appears on the menu of local coffee houses and pumpkin spice shakes at the ice creamery. It’s a SoCal autumn, where you can get away with a single layer during the day, and only need to burrow into a sweatshirt at night.

The salt smell reasserts it’s dominance, and I’m reminded of my childhood, my transplantation and resurrection. Of find and re-defining myself in this town, a mere twelve years ago.

Where has the time gone?

A few days ago L—- mentioned something that reminded me of something important. She was talking about how she’s 27, and doesn’t really have a hobby; some activity that she does outside of work that she looks forward to, some thing that isn’t a chore. Something like my martial arts. (Granted, I think of my martial arts as so much more than a hobby, but I don’t expect anyone but myself to understand that. And although I do love photography and writing as well, they’ve always played second fiddle to the arts.) She expressed how she admired how dedicated I was to it, and she decided to look for one; perhaps re-visiting hobbies from the past. I applaud her.

It reminded me that people want what I have. Not necessarily the punching and kicking and meditations, although some do want that, but the passion for something outside of work and responsibilities and the ordinary; something that drives you enough to follow through long term. I forget that not everyone has this. I forget about the time I was still looking for it, and how lost I felt.

At a basic level, it provides a sense of accomplishment and physical manifestation of change and evolution, but beyond that, at a more fundamental level, there is a sense of positive anticipation. I look forward to training, to the new things I’ll be taught and the things I’ll discover. Just last weekend, while I was training with Kurt, I connected a couple of dots, forming a small epiphany. I noticed a whole new world to explore within the art. I look forward to investigating this further. It reminds me that what I’m doing today is in preparation for more joy and insight tomorrow. That tomorrow will be better than today, minor vicissitudes of life excepted.

Some people are still looking for that world that intrigues them so. A world that drives them enough to spur an extended exploration. I’m lucky I found one that works for me. Once again, a small, offhand comment was more significant to the receiver than the sender probably realized.

What do you look forward to each day? What keeps you from sinking into a depressive mire, because you know that it will keep you buoyant? Don’t have anything? As Ferris Bueller said, “You’re not dying, you just can’t think of anything good to do.” Solution? “If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.”

Rob, Stacy, and myself, from my Chicago trip a bit ago

From the bachelor party in Vegas a few weeks ago:

In the spirit of yesterday’s post, here’s a small list of things I’d like to do, try, or do more often:

• Run through sprinklers with my clothes on
• Visit Hawaii
• Spend a week drinking coffee and writing in an outdoor cafe someplace I don’t understand the local language
• Sell a 20” x 30” print to a complete stranger
• Wander Angkor Wat
• Eat a candlelit dinner on the beach in Ko Tao
• Call in sick to work when I’m not
• Study martial arts – in China and Japan
• Learn something non-trivial that has no discernable value
• Eat food from some country I’ve never been
• Drive around America
• Save a life
• Learn to fly a plane
• Watch the sun rise once a month
• Learn to salsa
• Bath in the Blue Lagoon and play in Porsmorck Park
• Learn to play the piano
• Teach something
• Publish a novel / novella
• Revise this list
• Change the world (for the better)

I usually don’t get political on this blog, but right now, I’m experiencing some stomach-churning combination of disgust, embarrassment, and anger regarding the passage of the terror detainees bill.

I believe Bush should be impeached. I believe the validity of the terror detainees bill should be evaluated, particularly the portion regarding ex-post facto exemption of the executive branch. If unconstitutional, Bush, Cheney, and those involved should be tried in court.

America should be leading by example, but right now, we’re pulling an international “do what I say, not what I do.”

I am deeply ashamed.

As I mentioned before, I don’t really feel any older – I suppose that just sneaks up on you – but I’ve taken the opportunity to re-evaluate where I’m going and what I’m doing. Overall, I think I’m doing pretty well, but there’s always room for improvement. I suppose I haven’t addressed the Big Question: What do I ultimately want out of life?

Let’s start with the standard ones: Fame? Nope. Fortune? It’d be nice, as an enabler to allow me to do other things, but ultimately I believe such excess is more of a hindrance. Love? Well, of course, but I don’t think that’s a “goal” so much as something that you’re just lucky enough to be able to participate in. What about my martial arts? Do I aspire to get a 127th degree black belt? No, unless it came with a matching level of comprehension. I want my art to accompany me through life, not replace it. Just like love.

How about changing the world (for the better)? How so? That seems a noble goal, but it’s a little vague. What about learning and exploration? I’m always open to learning new things, in fact it’s a driving force in me. But to what end? Is it reasonable to be expected to know?

Perhaps a good way to find what I want is to examine my fears.

Am I scared of failure? Nah, I’ve had plenty of those so far, and I haven’t slowed down yet. How about success? No, I’m had some of those as well and I’m still rolling. Death? Ultimately, I think not. Confinement or isolation? Physical confinement would be horrible, but I think I’d find a way through it, as people do – even the Hanoi Hilton guests had cockroach races. What about mental or emotional confinement? Hmm, we may be getting closer here. My mind requires activity, evolution. I’m scared of stagnancy, or rather, I have no respect for it. However, I don’t really see myself ever lacking stimulation for lack of exposure – there’s always something to explore. So what would prevent me from evolutionary stimuli? Oppressive, exhausting environments, draining my motivation. Continually compromising myself too much. Too much work, too many obligations, too much time with girl, too much … anything.

If my fear is lack of having something to do, of something to learn, of something to explore or ask questions about, of not meeting new and interesting people, then perhaps my ultimate goal is connections. People, inter-personal relationship, exploration, learning.

Travel.

Of course, I’m looking forward to traveling, but I don’t think the concept necessarily requires geo-relocation. Last night after class, as I was leaving the park, the sprinklers popped on. As some parents watched from afar, two little girls ran laughing through the water, playing tag and playfully pushing each other around, screaming with delight when hit with a surprise burst of water.

Yeah, I think that’s traveling too.

… and counting. Yup, I’m 30 now.

Feels the same, but it’s a damn good excuse for partying this weekend.

I’ll see if I can manufacture some existential crisis soon.

A friend who was formerly in the real estate market came over last night to assess what needs to be done to our place before we sell:

• New carpet in both bedrooms
• Paint my room
• Stain my bathroom cabinets
• Make my bathroom “girly” (his words, not mine)
• Finish various paint jobs around the house
• Clean out the garage

Now the rub is that I’m gone/occupied for the next three weekends, and immediately after that Roommate and Fiance are gone for three weeks. We’re not going to have much time to do this before then. So we won’t be on the market before November. The thought of staying here through the holidays and beyond strains my sanity. Furthermore, if Roommate and Fiance are really shooting for preggers next month, and we’re going to be in this place for a while, we need to have another talk. Starting a family and all that is great if it’s time for you to do that, but I really don’t want to live with the drama that is a Hormonal Pregnant Woman. However, I don’t have the socially acceptable high ground here. Society would frown on my attempting to deny a couple the right to procreate just because I don’t want to live with that. But considering neither of us can leave this place at will, we should probably hash this out, ‘cause, you know, that was never part of the deal.

If I were of the histrionic persuasion, I’d be tearing my hair out about now.

I’ve been dubbed “The Ninja” by more than a few girlfriends. I’ve never asked for the moniker, but I understand where it comes from. It’s because martial arts are central to my life, because I train intensely, because Ninjitsu/Ninjutsu still carries and aura of mystique, and it is, compared to other things, relatively rarely studied.

I imagine anyone who’s enthralled by some “sexy” activity or job, be it formula car racing, rock climbing, firefighting, or something else, will experience some involuntary reduction of name to nickname – all you have to do is check various blogs on the ‘net: you’ll see more than a few entries that start with “So last night I went out with The Cowboy / Climber / Ninja / Whatever….” There’s also the physical aspect – all the above also generally imply an association with some moderately good physique (mine is decent, but I’m certainly no model), but I believe the biggest pull is is that the concept of “ninja” is ensconced in supernatural mythos, and one of the few that is so intimately associated with life or death scenarios.

Of course, I study Taoist internal arts as well, but that doesn’t have near the same effect. I’ve never had the nickname “Lo Han” (thank god) or “Jet Li.”

I don’t typically get into conversation about the arts I study unless you ask me and seem genuinely interested. (Even then I can be hesitant – the question you ask are so much larger than you think, and I may not even be qualified to answer them yet.) However, the subject invariable comes up when she asks why you’re so frequently unavailable at the same day and time, week after week. After the disclosure, “The Ninja” usually pops up sometime early in the relationship, and she’s usually doesn’t even use it in my presence. I’ll typically hear, upon meeting one of her friends, “So you’re The Ninja.” And the cat being out of the bag and all, “The Ninja” spreads as a nickname amongst her friends, in my presence and out of. It’s always accompanied with a sly smile and youthful exuberance.

Being early in the relationship, everything is new and exciting: the sex is novel, the old old stories are new again, and you discover whole new worlds of passions and cute idiosyncrasies. “The Ninja” is just another one of the latter, for her.

But after the novelty fades, martial arts are still there. I never studied them to pique anyone’s curiosity, they’re a part of me, or at least have been since I was 16 or so. This is when being “The Ninja” loses it’s attractiveness. She’ll begin to realize that if I’m ever to reach the heights of mastery, or perhaps even just competence, it’ll take even more training than what I do now. The dedication she once admired from afar now translates into years filled with me arriving home late, exhausted and hungry, after training for hours directly after work. She’ll notice we don’t get to cuddle every morning, as I’ve got to get up and do my morning Taiji and Chi Gong. She’ll wonder why she’s not invited when I just “sit” in the park and meditate.

She’ll get annoyed that I always take the seat in a restaurant facing the doors and windows, and that I’ll shuffle the condiments, flower vases, and silverware to the inside of the table. When she asks for a glass of water at night, she’ll appreciate that I don’t turn on the light but she’ll be annoyed that it takes so long since I’ve take an extra lap around the apartment testing my night walking. She’ll wonder about my commitment to her when I’m forced to choose between going on a martial arts retreat in the woods going to her mother’s place for brunch. She’ll be doubting my commitment to the art when I back down from the loudmouth at the bar, because she doesn’t understand the Life-Giving Sword. She’ll find it childish and silly that half the time you walk on her right, where it’s more comfortable for her, and half the time on the left, when you tell her it’s so you’re on the street-side of the sidewalk.

Suddenly dating The Ninja doesn’t seem so neat anymore. There’s all these … things … I do, and they don’t seem to make that much sense, or seem overly paranoid or without purpose, and, all in all, are organized in order to minimize the chance that I’ll actually have to get into a physical confrontation. You know, so I won’t have to “use” my martial arts, or at least in the sense most people conceive of martial arts being used.

I don’t mind the nickname – I actually find it kind of ironic, as some city-slicker kid studying martial arts part-time is about as far from true Ninjutsu as you can get – so I have no issue with it. And there’s a ton of benefits she’ll realize from as a result of her training – among other things, I’ll usually know exactly where she’s misplaced her keys or purse, I keep in pretty good shape, I have a reasonably good handle on reading her non-verbal communication, she knows she can trust my word and my discipline to act on it, I don’t lose my head when we fight, she feels safer around town, and a good sense of awareness and certain breathing exercises translate directly into better … other activities.

But she never has any idea what she’s getting into.

Just like me, when I started training in martial arts fourteen years ago.

It’s late Thursday night, after 11, and I’ve just driven a half-hour South after training for three hours. I haven’t had a bite to eat in since lunch so I stop by my local pub for a beer, food, and a chance to scribble down some notes from class. As I finish, a girl bounces up the the bar beside me to grab another round of drinks.

“Paris! Hey, how’ve you been? I haven’t seen you quite a while!”

We do the obligatory small-talk catch-up and invites me over to her table where she and her friend are sitting. There’s an extremely drunk and annoying guy hitting on her friend – we’ll call her Reeses for the shirt she’s wearing – and he’s pressing into her space and just generally giving people the jibblies.

Paris whispers in my ear, “She choked him out earlier. With a rear-naked choke, he was completely out. In the bar.”

“Wow, it looks like it kinda’ turned him on, ‘cause he’s coming back for more.”

I think no more of Annoying Guy, as he appears relatively harmless and apparently Reeses take care of herself. Paris and I resume our conversation. When Reeses excuses herself to powder her nose, Annoying Guy locks on to a new target: Paris. Now, keep in mind that Paris is married to a Navy SEAL (inactive). She’s obviously not interested, but Annoying Guy is so spun he doesn’t realize it. We spend fifteen minutes playing “give Annoy Guy hints as to what Paris’ name is because he can’t remember it.” Shares her name with a famous dilettante? Is a major city in France? Starts with “Pa”? What does he come up with? “Pasquale.” (I give him points for coming up with the last name of a French tennis player.)

Regardless, he’s edging in on her, she’s exuding “back off” body language, and even goes as far as say “come any closer and I’ll punch you in the face” while cocking her fist back. He’s still not dangerous, but he’s definitely a little creepy. I say at my end of the table, within arms reach, but I don’t think he’ll do anything. He’s just drunk and horny.

I see Reeses returning from the bathroom – both she and Paris are a little tipsy at this point, but not too bad – and I point at Annoying Guy, make the universal “he’s cut off” hand gesture, and cross my arms like they’re in a rear naked choke. I’m trying to indicate that she should do something like tell him she’ll choke him out again if he doesn’t bail. Of course if Annoying Guy steps too far, I’ll act, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary. This is totally resolvable with a few words from the girls, I don’t need to swing my dick around and act like a big man.

Reeses walks up behind me and slides her arms around _me_ in a loose rear naked choke. I tap her arm, and point Annoying Guy again. “No, not me, him.”

I feel her clutch her arms in tighter.

I tap her again, “No, not me, him. I’m friends with Paris.”

Tighter.

I tap her again. “I get it, you proved your point.”

Tighter.

I know at this point I’ve got about two second before I lose consciousness. I also know that I don’t know who this girl is, even if she’s friends with my friend, and I don’t know what her objective is. Even if she’s playing around, I don’t know if she’s sober enough to hold me if I let put me to sleep – what if I collapse and bash my head on the ground?

It happens really fast. One elbow to her sternum, shift right, rotate into her to give myself a gap, suck, tuck, and duck, rotating around and down, she’s still hanging on trying to get the choke back – no games here – and she hits the ground hard on her back. I’ve got my right knee on her stomach, my left elbow pinning her brachial on the ground and the edge of my left hand digging into her neck. My right hand half-way to a throat strike when something else triggers: nothing more is necessary. She’s not looking toward me, but she has confusion in her eyes. She more shocked and scared than violent.

I freeze. The bouncers are pull me off without a a struggle and drag her out. She’s kicked out; I can sit and finish my beer.

Paris doesn’t know what happened, no-one really does, so I give the girl time to cool down outside before I see if she’s open to a little chat. As soon as I get the news that she’s outside and feels bad about the whole thing, I approach (cautiously) and we have our chat. Short story is that she was joking around, she didn’t feel me tap, and she tends to take things too far when she’s been drinking. I let her know I’m not pissed at her, but since I don’t know her from Joe, so I’m not very going to let myself be choked out. (And I notice she’s already got a decent bruise developing on her arm.)

I smooth things over with the bouncers, and catch a third-party interpretation of events from a friend of mine who happened to see the whole thing.

Lessons? There’s a ton, both mistakes and of correct action, but I’m not going to list them all. I will list some, though:

• My art works. Even from a well-applied rear naked choke that’s already under the chin.
• It happens incredibly fast.
• I didn’t have to think about what I was doing, I was thinking about what was appropriate. The physical actions came without thought, the mind was what reigned me in at the proper time. My friend said he saw the moment when I was in motion to strike her on the ground, then something clicked, and I didn’t follow it. My life was no longer in danger. I just kept her pinned.
• She disclosed she trains under Chuck Liddell – so my assumption that I don’t know her background or intent is both correct and valuable.
• She’s choked out upward of ten different guys (not friends, but people she’s just me) in bars over the years, and including the ones that fought back, no one’s ever gotten out before. Why did I get out? Probably not because I’m better than the rest, but because when the switch is flipped, there’s no half-assing it. The other guys probably didn’t want to make a scene, or thought it wouldn’t be acceptable to fight a girl. Fuck that, I don’t need to know she’s an MMA fighter to engage – just the chance that she may be, and that my life may be in danger – is enough. Surprise and violence of action.
• It was ego that got me into trouble in the first place – she was cute, so I thought (or hoped) that her arms coming around me from behind constitued a hug, not a choke, even though I knew she’d choked someout out earlier. Mistake.

So, who’s taken a chick to down and to the ground in a bar?

I have. Never thought I’d say that.

Oh, I almost forgot the best line of the evening, said to me by a guy that saw it all go down: “Dude, you’ve got to stop wearing that Tag body spray.”

There’s a phrase I hear quite frequently, under the guise of countless masks and permutations. Both guys and girls use it, and they’re almost always sincere when they say it, and it’s generally applied to our friends. Sometimes, though, we even say it about ourselves:

“I don’t know why he/she doesn’t have a line of guys/girls begging to go out with him/her….”

It’s an innocent enough phrase, and it may be true – we truly don’t know why. But there’s a sense of fatality there I don’t like. It reeks of either apathy or futility, it pushes “blame” to others. It’s everyone else’s fault, there’s nothing wrong with my friend. He/she is perfect.

But your friend is not perfect. You’re not perfect. I’m not perfect. There’s two ways to deal with that: accept it, or change it. I know I’ve got plenty of shit to work on; I know why my past relationships have failed. You know why there’s not a line of girls waiting to date me? I’m difficult. I’m tough to live with, I’m not around enough, I have a few priorities in my life that are ahead everything else right now, I’m not spontaneous enough, and although I’m not frequently wrong (because I tend not to claim authority on things I don’t know about), it’s takes a hell of a lot to prove it to me when I am.

And I’m working on that.

So when you look at your friends (or yourself), can you see why they’re single? Perhaps because they don’t want a relationship now? Or do they have self-destructive tendencies, do they go for the type of person that’s just wrong for them? Are their priorities currently elsewhere? Do they keep going for people out of they’re league? Is it difficult to get to know them? Does he or she have some superficial quality that you don’t notice anymore, such as huge gut, crooked nose, or annoying laugh, that distracts from everything that’s great about him or her, at least until your get better acquainted? Are their standards unattainably high? How about once they’re in a relationship? Do they not put effort into it anymore, or perhaps go overboard and fall too hard too fast and scare the other off?

None of this is categorically wrong, but when we look at ourselves and our friends, we tend to gloss over those unattractive bits and focus on what we love. Which makes sense, why dwell on the things we dislike? It’d make for a terribly dreary existence. However, when you want to know “why,” that’s one place you should definitely include in your excavation. I’m not saying it’s an easy process, nor one that even ever ends, but that’s the only way you’ll get closer to your answer.

Of course if you’re playing matchmaker, you’re probably not going to say to a prospective match, “Yeah, he’s a really great guy, but he spits a lot and tends to wipe his nose on his shirt. Oh, and he’s emotionally unavailable. Interested?” You obviously want to focus on your friend’s positive qualities right then and there – but that doesn’t mean you can’t approach your friend privately and note that spitting and nose-wiping are